Now Monsieur St. Megrin was curious to know If the Lady approved of his passion or no; So without more ado, He put on his _surtout_, And went to a man with a beard like a Jew, One Signor Ruggieri, A Cunning-man near, he Could conjure, tell fortunes, and calculate tides, Perform tricks on the cards, and Heaven knows what besides, Bring back a stray'd cow, silver ladle, or spoon, And was thought to be thick with the Man in the Moon. The Sage took his stand With his wand in his hand, Drew a circle, then gave the dread word of command, Saying solemnly--"_Presto!--Hey, quick!--Cock-a-lorum!!_" When the Duchess immediately popp'd up before 'em. Just then a Conjunction of Venus and Mars, Or something peculiar above in the stars, Attracted the notice of Signor Ruggieri, Who "bolted," and left him alone with his deary.-- Monsieur St. Megrin went down on his knees, And the Duchess shed tears large as marrow-fat peas, When,--fancy the shock,-- A loud double knock, Made the Lady cry "Get up, you fool!--there's De Guise!"-- 'Twas his Grace, sure enough; So Monsieur, looking bluff, Strutted by, with his hat on, and fingering his ruff, While, unseen by either, away flew the Dame Through the opposite key-hole, the same way she came; But, alack! and alas! A mishap came to pass, In her hurry she, some how or other, let fall A new silk _Bandana_ she'd worn as a shawl; She used it for drying Her bright eyes while crying, And blowing her nose, as her Beau talk'd of dying! Now the Duke, who had seen it so lately adorn her, And he knew the great C with the Crown in the corner, The instant he spied it, smoked something amiss, And said, with some energy, "D---- it! what's this?" He went home in a fume, And bounced into her room, Crying, "So, Ma'am, I find I've some cause to be jealous! Look here!--here's a proof you run after the fellows! --Now take up that pen,--if it's bad choose a better,-- And write, as I dictate, this moment a letter To Monsieur--you know who!" The Lady look'd blue; But replied with much firmness--"Hang me if I do!" De Guise grasped her wrist With his great bony fist, And pinched it, and gave it so painful a twist, That his hard, iron gauntlet the flesh went an inch in,-- She did not mind death, but she could not stand pinching; So she sat down and wrote This polite little note:-- "Dear Mister St. Megrin, The Chiefs of the League in Our house mean to dine This evening at nine; I shall, soon after ten, Slip away from the men, And you'll find me upstairs in the drawing-room then; Come up the back way, or those impudent thieves Of Servants will see you; Yours CATHERINE OF CLEVES." She directed and sealed it, all pale as a ghost, And De Guise put it into the Twopenny Post.